


Ay, Ernesto, Don't Give Up!

by lloronadeazulceleste, teseo8498



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Character fights against inner demons, F/M, Jealousy, M/M, Murder, Poisoning, Prequel, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-05-31 16:09:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15123083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lloronadeazulceleste/pseuds/lloronadeazulceleste, https://archiveofourown.org/users/teseo8498/pseuds/teseo8498
Summary: Ernesto de la Cruz finally gets the chance to seize his moment - at just one small cost.





	Ay, Ernesto, Don't Give Up!

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Ay, Ernesto, no te rajes!](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/393947) by lloronadeazulceleste. 



Ernesto de la Cruz waits with all the patience there is within him. Which, if we're honest, isn't much. Waiting is what he has to do the most since he boarded the train from Santa Cecilia to Querétaro, with a small suitcase and nothing more but a dream larger than mountains. His passion would move Mexico; he would make the earth boom. His song would shatter the night.

"No going back now."

"And who would want to?" asked Héctor, with an enormous smile.

"Let's seize our dream!"

The first night was a success. They had set up in Querétaro to dance. The applause rained down like laurels. The owner of the cantina where they performed put all the night's drinks on the house. The tequila vanished on all sides, and the friends toasted to a million nights just like that. They toasted to the good fortune that smiled upon them, and that it would continue to smile upon them for many years more.

Hector left early. He burned through an entire candle writing to his young daughter. Ernesto could not let the bottles go to waste, so he sang a couple songs more. With his voice at a shout, and his arm around the shoulders of strangers. All of them became his family when they sang his song. What did Santa Cecilia matter, his parents, when the entire world waited for him! He would conquer it all under his footstep. He would touch heaven with his hand. He would become the greatest musician in history.

Five months had already passed from that first night. In the morning, Ernesto received a telegram on behalf of Pepe Gonzalez, his agent, who had obtained a meeting with the renowned Ángel García. The idea of meeting with the most successful music producer in all of Mexico was enough for him to finish his breakfast in record time, and he left, forgetting to look for Héctor.

"Margarita, when Héctor comes back, tell him that there's a telegram for him in his room!"

"But where are you going in such a hurry?"

"I don't have time to explain, _mi florecita_!"

Héctor did not delay in returning from the mail office. It was his everyday routine, and Margarita already knew it by heart. She waited for him on the staircase, playing with her hair.

"A telegram arrived for you."

"Is everything alright? Imelda..."

"Ernesto said it was important."

Hector ran up the stairs, with Margarita hot on his heels. He found the piece of paper comfortably situated upon his bed. Margarita, proud of her work, batted her eyelashes a couple of times in Hector's direction, who devoured every line with avidity.

"Is it good news?"

"Excellent, Margarita, excellent news! Be a peach and please hand me some paper! My Imelda has to know about this."

"Ernesto said that you would go as fast as you could," she reproached, looking down at her boots.

Héctor, with a dreamy sigh, responded: "Well, say no more, then. Get me a rose as well, Margarita, the most beautiful one you find! _Muchas gracias!"_

Upon finishing, he could not repress a shout from the depths of his being. At last they would make it! This would be the beginning of everything! Hector set off running without directing a simple gaze upon her. The youth let loose a large sigh and chewed at her lips. How love hurt when it wasn't requited.

When Ernesto arrived at the modern building, it didn't surprise him that Hector wasn't there. He himself fought to secure a car that would take him over there. He didn't trust his feet which now thought they were wings. The door opened, and the impotent figure of Ángel Gómez studied him with courtesy. Ernesto, smiling with a pinch of nervousness, rose from his seat. Removing his hat, he resisted the urge to ruffle his hair.

"Are you Señor de la Cruz?"

"The very same. It's a plea-"

 _"Sí, sí. Pase._ Close the door behind you, please." The man circled the desk and returned to his seat in the impotent chair with a large back-support. "I'll introduce myself. I'm Ángel Gómez, producer."

"Ernesto de la Cruz."

"You came alone?" asked Ángel, his eyes hardly raising up from the sheet of paper that he concentrated on reading.

"Do not worry, señor Gómez." Ernesto's voice, full of confidence and exceptional modesty, forced himself to explain. "Héctor shouldn't be late. He never arrives late."

"It isn't Héctor I'm waiting for," he responded with no expression. "I want to introduce you to someone. This is Fernando Torres. Surely you have heard talk about him."

" _S-sí, señor._ It's a great honor."

"The pleasure is mine, señor de la Cruz. I heard you yesterday. You have talent."

"Pepe spoke much of you. I thought he was exaggerating, to be honest. Now I see that he was right upon doing it."

"I appreciate the compliment. My friend Héctor and I have played together since we were children."

"Héctor?" asked Fernando, combing his mustache with his fingers.

Ernesto blinked a couple of times. "The guitarrist. He-"

Again, don Ángel interrupted him with a disdainful gesture. "He doesn't interest us, plain and simple."

"Excuse me?"

"Pepe didn't tell you?" asked Fernando, furrowing his brow. His thick mustache hardly allowed Ernesto to hear what he said. At least Fernando had the decency to seem embarrassed for this misunderstanding.

"No." Ernesto shook his head. "He said..."

Ángel Gómez let out a heavy sigh, setting the paperwork aside. He took off his glasses and rubbed his sinuses. They were treating Ernesto like a child, and he coudn't even take offense to it. No, what was making his blood boil was that he began to understand the suspicious nature of that call.

"Listen, kid. I want _you."_

"I think you're getting confused. Héctor and I-"

"I can make you the biggest star that ever set foot in Mexico. Everyone will listen to your songs. But two is too much. I'm telling you this for your own good."

"I- I don't understand. _We are a team_."

 _"_ The _muchacho_ gets sidetracked a lot with his family. _Even Pepe thinks so._ But you don't need him! _You, hijo, were born to be a star."_

"This wasn't the deal," he responded, gritting his teeth.

"How can you say no? Fernando Torres himself believes in you!"

"If you don't sign my friend, then neither will I."

"Think about it. What happens if one day they get into a fight? Lawsuits cost millions. One stain upon your name, and you're finished. Image is everything for you."

This was torture. Although Ernesto himself saw that his friend was a very dedicated family man, he never had considered it as something bad. It was another one of his best friend's virtues. It was something he admired from him, something that he secretly wished for himself. But he was letting his mind get carried away. All his life he had worked hard. There wasn't a way in which he could just slip by. What he always wished for was right in front of him. And yet...

"Hector is like a brother to me," he thought aloud, returning his lost gaze to the two men in front of him.

Ángel smiled; the weakness of Ernesto's response hadn't escaped him. Ernesto could fool himself all he wanted, but in the end, everyone was equal. And he was an expert in manipulating the threads to his advantage.

"Then this isn't your dream," he told him simply, rising from his seat. Ernesto imitated him. "If it were, you would be disposed for anything."

"Whether here or in China, that's called betrayal," he mumbled.

With his fists clenched at his sides, Ernesto was making a superhuman effort to not launch himself upon him. How dare he! He had to shut up now. He was telling lies. It couldn't be.

 _"M'ijo,_ people don't go anywhere in life being saints." His voice, raspy and tired, plucked Ernesto out of his thoughts. "Seize your moment. Or what? You want to keep singing in smelly cantinas?" 

Ernesto didn't respond, lowering his gaze. Five months away from home, he remembered. Papá would never want him back. He would have cracked open Ernesto's face if he found out, if Ernesto had said goodbye. But they could bury that old man and Ernesto would not lose his dream. He would show everyone that no one humiliated Ernesto de la Cruz.

"How much do you make per night? 2 pesos? I could make you a millionaire. You could have everything you always wanted."

This wasn't him. This couldn't be him. This courage that coursed through his veins. This understanding that compelled him to accept...those things you don't do to family. _Hector is family, Hector is family,_ he repeated, forcefully clenching his fists.

"This is not how I wanted it to be."

"Listen to me, and you will be a true musician. Do you know how many young men there are like you?"

"There is no one like me, señor. And I don't betray my friends."

"What distinguishes a star from a failure isn't talent; it's what they're ready to sacrifice."

"I already told you, and I'm not gonna change my mind. Either you sign Héctor and I, or forget about us both."

"Your friend is disposable. Remember what I tell you: he'll become dead weight. Married and with a little girl...hope the devil never enters his wife, as far as I'm aware! He will always choose his family."

Ernesto didn't know who threw the first punch. What he did know were the many blows that followed the first. Even poor Fernando reached his limit, wanting to separate them. Ernesto couldn't detain himself. He had to silence the serpent. He had to push his words so far away that he could never hear them again. He had to rub out the impression they left in him. He had to silence the temptation they left in him. _Héctor is family. Héctor is family.  
_

His mouth tasted like iron, but nothing bothered him more than the mere idea of dissolving his friendship. De la Cruz arrived at the inn three hours later, with his lip swollen and a couple of bruises. But satisfied with himself.

The first thing he saw upon opening the door to the inn was his friend Héctor writing a letter. Surely for Imelda. Ernesto felt a chill upon recalling what Gómez told him, something he had always wanted to ignore: if Héctor had to decide, he would choose his family. He would whisk away his chance to triumph, he would whisk away his dream between his feet - and it wouldn't matter to him. Ernesto knew it, like he knew that the sun died in _el Poniente._ While Hector continued to ignore him, everything would be fine.

"Ernesto! I'm so sorry. All the while I was looking all over the commons and I could never find the address that Pepe gav-" his friend stopped, eyeing him closely. "What happened to you?"

"Better you didn't find it," he growled, taking off his crumpled hat and setting it to his side. "The guy didn't know how to keep his promise; he isn't a man you can trust."

"You fought him?"

"And his guards. That idiot does nothing for himself," snorted he, annoyed at not even being able to use his colorful repertoire of swearwords with the tiresome Margarita there with them. "But believe me, I did us a favor."

"Well, what did he say to you?"

"Nothing, Héctor, it's not important."

"He smashed your face open, that's important to me," Héctor answered with his characteristic good sense of humor. This time it did little to his friend. "At least you could have spoken to me; the coward involved even his guards."

"We don't need him. We have your songs, and people will listen to us."

"It would have been a very good opportunity," Margarita said, putting herself into the conversation.

"Soon better will come."

"You think so?"

"We will try other cities. We will meet with other producers. We will do what we must."

"You're going?"

"It was never the plan to stay here for a while," answered Ernesto harshly, lighting a cigar.

"Perhaps it's best I write Imelda. This will go on for a while."

"That can wait til tomorrow. Come, drink something with me. If I don't distract myself I am going to look for him and bust him up again."

"That wouldn't help anything."

"But it would feel really nice..."

"I don't want to discuss it."

"Listen, Héctor. We're ending the tour because we're ending it. No discussion." 

"Pepe will get upset. He fought so hard to get us the appointment, and..."

"We're better this way."

"If you say so."

"Why don't you sing, señor Ernesto? That way we can all calm down." Ernesto resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but in Margarita he recognized a good distraction.

"Take out your guitar, Héctor. We're going to sing that one you wrote to Imelda, don't go and forget about her now that we're seeing so many beautiful _muchachas_."

Margarita's smile widened a great extent.

"You know I wouldn't. Not even in my dreams," answered he, shaking his head. "There's no one like my Imelda."

Ernesto knew that very well. He permitted himself to raise an eyebrow, and he had to bite his tongue. Margarita lowered her gaze, and returned to her work in silence. The noise from the plates upon being stacked on the shelf was for a few seconds the only conversation in the dining room.

"No, if she drives you that crazy," Ernesto finally managed to say, messing with the salt-shaker.

"You will know when you fall in love." Héctor gave him a little punch to the shoulder, along with another one of his contagious laughs.

"If you say so," shrugged Ernesto. " _Oye,_ Margarita, we would really like a bit of _mezcal_. _O no,_ Héctor?"

" _Sí, sí. Como quieras,"_ responded his friend.

Mention Imelda to him and he's lost, De la Cruz knew that much. Margarita as well; and she never attempted to ask. In her innocent heart, unachieveable dreams did not exist. Hope didn't die. It felt like the most annoying trifle for Ernesto. And she was his only distraction that July evening. At least like this he didn't have to think about everything they said to him. In truth he dreamed.

Ernesto had to bite the inside of his cheek as not to smile with delight. If his thoughts were betraying him thus, he wouldn't be the only person with a stained soul. He almost broke out laughing when Margarita's cooking pot shuddered, while Hector sang with his heart in his hand for his venerated Imelda. Ernesto didn't feel pressured to tell Héctor what had happened. He didn't have to confront his own thoughts. Ernesto won yet again.

Hector's thoughts flew through the skies towards the little town of Santa Cecilia. Soon he would reunite with his family. Soon _they_ would fulfill their dream.

**Author's Note:**

> Original author: lloronadeazulceleste (Spanish)  
> Translator: teseo8498


End file.
